


Locking Horns

by Splat_Dragon



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Accidentally Drawing Blood, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Animal Instincts, Animal Traits, Anthro!AU, Anthropomorphic, Arthur's a jerk because he needs some, Because we need that hat, Buck!Arthur, Hand Jobs, Horn Stimulation, In Rut, Lion!Dutch, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Only Accessories, Oral Sex, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Young!ARTHUR, but still legal, horn grabbing, no clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-01 17:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Hosea and Dutch loved Arthur, really, they did.But he was being apain in the assand, really, he was testing their love for him.It was hard to see him in a sexual light, honestly. They'd raised him, after all, since he was fourteen. He was still afraid of them, sometimes, still woke up screaming from night terrors.Really, they should have seen it, though. He'd sprouted up, lost his baby coat. Hitting eighteen, he'd started growing his antlers. So come July, when he'd started acting out, started gaining a temper he'd never had before, it should have been obvious.But Dutch practically had to be smacked in the face with it to see it, of course.





	1. Temper

Dutch and Hosea tried to give Arthur some leeway.

The young buck had had a rough go of it and, despite being with them for a handful of years, it still showed. He still avoided them when they drank, when they raised their voices or argued. Flinched when they would clap a hand down on his shoulder in pride, or moved too quickly.

But he was desperate to make them happy, make them proud, too. Would disappear long before sunrise to hunt, even though he was a herbivore and, thus, only used the pelts from his spoils, the meat going to Dutch and Hosea. Was the first to volunteer when they started planning a heist, a robbery, was always listening for tips. Had even, once, knocked himself silly trying to lock horns with a stag that had thrown Hosea across a saloon, being run through when he had no antlers with which to lock, splitting his head open and having to be nursed by the pair for well over a month.

Dutch had split the stag's skull against a pillar, and they'd had to bolt out of town.

But by God was he testing their patience.

He'd remained small and scrawny, practically a fawn, even with the trademark spots, until he was seventeen. Had sprouted up, then, barely recognizable once he'd shed his winter coat. Dusty, spotted brown had grown in gleaming gold, slick and shiny and clinging to his rapidly appearing muscles. He'd grown into spindly, weak limbs, and his frame had filled out. They'd been more grateful than ever that he was an herbivore, that he was incredibly easy to feed, seeing as he'd still managed to eat them out of house and home—if he'd been a meat-eater, they hadn't a clue how they'd have kept him fed.

Now that he was eighteen, though, they could see why so many deer sent their sons away on apprenticeships. He was constantly testing them, arguing and blowing up at the slightest provocation. It was good to see that he was growing comfortable around them, comfortable enough to talk back and stand up for himself, but they'd rather he showed it _ any other way_.

Catching him scratching his head against a tree, however, desperately trying to rub off the insanely itchy velvet from his late-budding antlers, did somewhat make up for it. He was incredibly proud of them, had been stunned the first time he'd gone to put on his hat and found it put off kilter by the buds. Most fawns budded for the first time at twelve or thirteen, and he'd been scared shitless that he'd never have antlers. So they were precious to him; he'd be a hell of a lot happier, though, if the damned velvet would just come off.

  


For once, though, they were getting along. Sitting around the campfire, Dutch roasting a chunk of almost-too-old-to-eat venison (it had been strange, at first, to eat venison around their stag, but he had reassured them: it _ was _ from a feral, non-sentient deer, the sort that ran on all fours at all times and shat everywhere, fucked indiscriminately and were dumb as shit. When they'd still felt awkward, stayed away from eating it despite it being an easy food source, he'd gone out and hunted nothing else for a week straight. They'd gotten the hint, and it hadn't bothered them since) while Arthur swigged beer, humming and occasionally grabbing a fistful of ginseng to chew on.

There was, however, a bit of tension in the air. Dutch wanted to talk, to say something, as they usually did, but Arthur had been so volatile as of late that he feared setting him off. With their tempers, an argument could spiral quickly, could blow up irreparably. Normally Hosea would be there to put an end to it, to calm them down and separate them, but he was away on a job, had found an in with an elderly couple who had an obscene amount of money that they could bear parting with.

The lion leaned back, setting the meat on the grill to roast. Arthur eyed him as he tilted his head back, gulping down the last of his beer before tossing the bottle into the pile. It was July, and it was _ hot_, easily into the upper nineties. With Dutch's pitch-black fur, it was damned miserable, and sitting so close to the fire made it even worse.

Closing his eyes, the lion rumbled, "We're never spending summer in Texas again." 

Arthur snorted, blowing through his nose, and grabbed for another handful of ginseng, scowling and flattening his ears back bad-naturedly when he scraped up the last in the bowl. "Gonna spend 'em in our summer house in Alaska?" the stag shifted, crossing his hooves.

Dutch sighed—the words were innocuous, but the tone was almost petulant. "Anywhere but Texas, son. How you're not melting, I'll never know." he squinted, staring at Arthur: the buck was twitching, almost flinching over and over, as thought being stung by invisible bees. Leaning forward to rotate the meat, flicking his ears back at the wall of heat, he asked "You alright, son?" 

The stag scowled, crossing his legs and reaching up to rub at his neck, scratching his fur. "It _ itches_!" he barked, tone rumbling into that low growl he'd begun to develop at the same time he'd sprouted up to Dutch's height.

The lion took a deep breath, trying not to lose his temper. Arthur was getting on his last damned nerve, and if he continued this way then he worried Hosea would come back to one less member of the camp. There was a reason that it was rare for herbivores and carnivores to be friends, to spend more time together than they had to; they tended to stay away from each other and, while Dutch considered himself above his instincts, his lion was screaming at him to put the petulant brat in his place, to _ rip _ and _ bite _ and _ tear_. But he was still his boy, the son he raised even if he was acting completely _ wrong_, so he settled for sneering, voice thick with false concern, "Got fleas, son? Hosea's got something for that, hurts something fierce I'm afraid. Somethin' for ticks, too, if you got something from this deer." the venison wasn't done cooking, but that didn't stop him from tearing into it, ripping out a mouthful and gulping it down loudly.

A muffled bugle sounded from the buck's chest, and he flashed his teeth as he leaped to his hooves, eyes flashing dangerously, the can that had held the ginseng clattering to the ground. "I don't have no _ goddamn _ fleas, DUTCH! Don't have no _ ticks_, neither! Fuck off!" He whirled, storming off into the dark, only the white flash of his flared tail to show he was there.

Dutch gawked after him for a long minute, ears hanging in confusion and tail limp on the ground. Finally, he reached down and grabbed one of the discarded beer bottles, throwing it back and gulping down the mouthful that remained.


	2. Hiding

Ever since Arthur's explosion by the campfire, things had been incredibly awkward.

They seldom saw each other: it hadn't taken long for Dutch to discern that the buck was avoiding him, leaving the camp before sunrise and not returning until long after sunset. He worried after his boy, over whether he was even sleeping, but when he managed to catch him by the campfire, getting a cup of coffee, Arthur would stare at him like a called deer before fleeing: if he had a longer tail, Dutch was sure, it would be tucked between his legs. 

And, frankly, it was starting to piss him off. They needed to talk, and he hadn't raised the boy to be a coward. To run away from his problems, to avoid them. They'd been quick to train out his natural instinct to flee from confrontation, only fighting when cornered, and the buck had taken to it like a tiger cub to water. So not only was he showing an uncharacteristic temper, but a long-gone fear that he could not abide.

The buck, he had noticed, always slept in his tent. Didn't make a camp wherever he was going, so it was only common sense for him to corner him come night time.

He dozed at the fireside, listening out for Arthur. His ears twitched with each noise, rousing just enough to identify it before falling back into a dreamless sleep. The sound of hoofbeats had him jerking awake, reaching for his gun, but Arthur's changing, musty scent had him relaxing, faking sleep. His ears perked, somewhat hidden by his mane, as the buck took his time grooming down his mare, talking as sweet as ever with her.

Arthur walked into camp, then, and Dutch evened out his breathing, listening for the buck, waiting for him to go into his tent so he couldn't make an escape. But he didn't go to his tent, or even the crates where they stored their food. Instead he approached Dutch, so close that the lion could make out the splits in his hooves from where he'd dropped his gaze, the muscles that he'd developed on his calves.

His boy really had grown up, hadn't he?

The buck snorted, so close his breath ruffled the lion's dark mane, before walking away, vanishing into his tent. Dutch waited, counting five minutes so Arthur would have time to relax, to wind down and, hopefully, be in a better mood than usual, before standing slowly, stretching. He wasn't looking forward to this conversation, to what would likely develop into an all-out confrontation, a screaming match like they'd never had before.

But he couldn't avoid this, refused to let himself be that sort of hypocrite, and so began to approach Arthur's tent, ears perking as he listened for movement, regretting that the buck didn't wear jewelry that would give him away. He didn't bother to knock, or announce himself, slipping into the tent, frowning; Arthur had only recently started sleeping with the flap down, had never cared to do it before, and it was almost stifling hot inside, so stuffy he could hardly breathe.

The buck was stretched out on his bed, reclining with his arms crossed behind his head. His furs were pulled up to his waist, legs crossed beneath them, and his hat, the only accessory he chose to wear, unlike Dutch with his jewelry and pocket watch, was tilted down to cover his face. Even still, Dutch could see his mouth hanging open, panting for breath in the heat.

"Son?" he started to say, only for a quiet snore to interrupt him. The lion warred with himself for a long moment, the stag huffing in his sleep, curling in on himself. They  _ needed _ to have this talk, but the buck was always in a bad mood, and he didn't even want to imagine what sort of mood he'd be in if he was woken up.

So, scowling and shaking his head, tail lashing in frustrated agitation, he slunk out of Arthur's tent, walking on the pads of his paws, careful not to wake him. They  _ would _ speak tomorrow, he swore, come hell, high water, nap or temper tantrum.

* * *

So, the next night, he waited on the log next to the fire as he had done before. Dozed, a beer in his hand, stomach full of rabbit, listening for the stag to return.

This time he came back, grunting as he unloaded a feral doe from the back of his mare. Took her to their food supplies, and hurried to butcher her, not wanting to waste anything, knowing she'd rot quickly in the heat. The scent of blood was strong on the air, and Dutch's stomach rumbled: venison was his favorite, and if it wasn't for his insistence that they be civilized he would happily eat it raw. The stag's ear twitched at the sound, turning to look, but Dutch was good at pretending to be asleep, so he returned to his mare, brushing her down.

  
  


Dutch counted off thirty minutes this time, long enough for Arthur to cool down and wash the blood and other such gore from his fur. That was the bad thing about fur: it took ages to clean, unless you took a bath. In camp, however, they only had a small washbin, and cleaning fur could be a multi hour event.

Standing, he stretched, a low growl in his throat as his bones popped. He shook himself off as he approached his tent, shoving the tent flap out of the way, "Arthur-" 

and the buck was asleep again. His hat was low over his head, only the tip of his muzzle sticking out, hanging open as he panted in the heat. Like before, his furs were pulled up to his waist, but this time his legs weren't crossed, and Dutch was quick to avert his eyes, brown flashing in the dark.

Oh.

There was a definite bulge in the furs, and he suddenly felt incredibly uncomfortable. Now that he was aware of it, he could scent arousal in the air, and he spun on his heel, making a rapid exit from the tent as quickly as he could without running.

Well, that was… something.

Neither he nor Hosea had ever been able to see Arthur in a sexual light. Of course they knew that he was an adult, had been a teenager when they'd taken him in. But he'd still looked like a fawn, fawn spots and all, and with how fearful he could act it was easy to forget that he was practically an adult.

Yet there was no denying that he had changed, had become an adult, grown into a buck's body. Was taking on a buck's scent, a buck's form, even growing antlers, as stubby as they were. Their son was a young buck.

Dutch beat a hasty retreat to his own tent, dragging his paw down his face, trying to clear his nose of that scent. It shouldn't have been so appealing, and he bared his teeth in self-disgust. 


	3. Found Out

Dutch couldn't look Arthur in the eye.

The buck had started showing back up during the day, slinking around like a kicked cur. He still stayed away from Dutch, and Dutch did the same. The lion couldn't look at him without smelling that phantom-scent of arousal, seeing the bulge in his furs. Wished, desperately, that the buck was one of those few who wore clothes, pants at the least, so his eyes would stop being drawn to his sheath.

God,was he glad that Arthur was avoiding him. He needed some time to think, to get his thoughts in order, to get rid of these horrific thoughts towards the boy.

Really, though, he wasn't much of a boy anymore. Was a grown man, musky scent and all. But that didn't make it  _ right,  _ he had raised him after all, called him his  _ Son _ for crying out loud! Yet remembering that scent… seeing his sheath… had his throat going dry and his own sheath twitching, the lion slinking off until he calmed down.

To make matters worse, Hosea would be gone much longer than they had expected, had struck it rich with the elderly hounds and was expecting to come home with enough money to get them halfway across the country. Dutch had half a mind to tell him to damn it all and come home.

But it wouldn't be fair to Arthur or Hosea to make them lose out on food, and clothing, and more comfortable housing just because Dutch was struggling with his baser instincts, and so he bit his tongue, writing back and telling the fox to take as long as he needed.

  
  


Arthur, though, was acting even more twitchy than before. Dutch constantly caught him scratching at his fur, twitching and flinching, to the point that he had taken the flea and tick medicines and snuck them into his saddle bag, risking the explosion.

And  _ hell _ , had that been a fight. The buck had been furious that Dutch had done it, even after he had said that he didn't have fleas nor ticks, although his argument was much less effective considering he was stamping his hoof and rolling his neck, half wild with whatever was bothering him. Musk rolled off of him in waves, enough to feed Dutch's anger, looping into a screaming match that had them both storming off and not returning to camp until morning.

  
  


Both had taken to staying in camp only long enough to eat and drink, resting before heading out. The amount of time they spent away from camp lessened, over the following days, but they still found themselves away from home more often than not.

And it gave Dutch time to think. To relax, letting The Duke wander about as he wished. Found bunny burrows that would feed them for weeks, fishing spots he intended on taking Hosea to when the fox returned. But mostly it let him muse on his boy’s changed behavior.

It was well known that a lot of families sent their sons off once they turned fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, to work apprenticeships. They’d never thought about it, really, Arthur was  _ Arthur _ , the street rat they’d scooped up, taught to take care of his fur, to find edible plants, to shoot a gun and protect himself. It was hard to imagine having to send him away, and so they’d never, ever contemplated it. After all, it was Dutch’s dream to make a family where anyone was welcome, where misfits and oddballs could have a home. And sending someone away just because he was acting up—well, that didn’t exactly fit his dream, did it?

There had to be something wrong, though. Arthur loved them, dearly. He never said it, but he showed it. Leaned on them, would rub his chin on them when he was tired enough, marking them with his scent. Would step in on their behalf, wouldn’t stand by and let them be hurt. The buck didn’t speak his love aloud, but showed it in his actions, and there was no denying that he loved them both unconditionally. 

So Dutch was beginning to worry. Now that he was outside of camp, outside of the stew of pheromones and hormones, he could think clearly. Could focus on how Arthur wasn’t acting out for the sake of it, that there had to be a  _ reason _ . That he wasn’t just testing him, trying to push his place in the ‘pride’. And the reason was niggling at the back of his mind, just needed something more to push it to the forefront, to smack him in the face as it should have when this all started.

  
  


It wasn’t until he was riding back to camp that he began to figure it out. A satchel full of peaches for a peace offering, Dutch was hoping to start anew, talk things out without screaming. Hopefully, though, Arthur would be amenable for a talk even  _ without _ gifts, as The Duke suddenly balked; Dutch attempted to soothe him, but the gelding screamed, and reared, prancing back and throwing his head, scattering peaches every which way. The lion soothed him, raised his head and fought down bile as he saw what had scared his mount so badly.

A feral stag stood in the path, head hanging low. Its hide was dull, ribs showing clearly, but what caught his attention was neither of those, nor the scent of blood or rot in the air.

Its antlers were interlocked with another's, and the other was still with him. It looked much the same, hide dull, bones showing, but even more so, considering that there was nothing below its neck, and Dutch could, quite literally, see its spine. The living stag was shaking its head weakly, trying to dislodge it, but itself was so weak that it nearly went to the ground with each movement.

The lion bared his teeth, reaching for his gun. No matter what he did, that stag wasn't going to leave the path, it would stand there and struggle until it dropped, starved to death or died of exhaustion. And he didn't have the time to wait for that, couldn't be bothered to try and find another way back to camp, felt some pity for the animal, so he took a moment to line up his shot before putting it down.

It took him longer than he expected to move the carcasses. Normally he'd have had Arthur do it, do the dirty work. Last time he'd had to butcher a carcass, actually, was before he'd met Hosea. The young buck had quickly become the one who did the grunt work, and Dutch found himself grimacing, moving gingerly and thinking about how he'd have to boil his fur.

He needed to apologize to Arthur for all the times he'd made him do things like this.

  
  


The lion didn't even get another mile down the road before The Duke, fidgety beast he was, nearly dumped him in the dirt. He whirled him about, let the gelding dance in a circle, his gaze never leaving the two bucks as they rushed into the center of the path, meeting with a clash so harsh he felt it in his bones.

Although he wanted to get back to camp soon, he had no issue with staying and watching the bucks fight. They separated, and circled, charged again, locking together and grappling, twisting, writhing, trying to force the other to the ground with wrathful bugles and bellows. For a moment it looked like the younger would succeed, the older stumbling, and Dutch leant forward in his saddle, what remained of the grasslands in him screaming to pounce, to grab the falling stag and drag it away before it could regain its hooves, but in a silver flash it was up again, and shoving into the younger. The golden buck struggled, dug in his hooves, but ceded, backing up as the grey stag pushed, harder and harder, until they vanished into the treeline.

Dutch held The Duke still, heart thrumming in his ears, blood racing his veins, as he listened to them crash, further and further away, until finally they were out of hearing range, salivating all the while. The air was thick with scents, and he dug his claws into the gelding's sides, wanting to get away as soon as he could. But he couldn't stop himself from tasting the air, scenting the rage and arousal that the pair had given off, the vague scent of doe under it all.

  
  


Dutch barely took the time to hitch The Duke when he finally reached camp, still half wild. He needed to clear his head, needed to get to his tent where the only scents were his own or, at least heavily mixed with his own, where he could curl up and cover his nose until his blood stopped boiling and he was civilized again, a lion who could go into town and buy a pocket watch, not some beast that still stalked the grasslands.

Like some teenaged cub, he threw himself down on his cot, not even bothering to remove his adornments before burying his face in his pillow. Dropping his jaw, he huffed his scent, again and again, desperately attempt to override the scent of the feral bucks. It had never affected him so badly before but, then again, he hadn't run into a pair of rutting bucks since before they'd taken in Arthur, had only been charged by them.

His mind stuttered to a halt.

Rut…? The bucks were fighting, and he'd scented it strongly on them.

Was Arthur… was Arthur in rut? He was old enough, sure, and damn well acting like it.

It was just hard for him to admit it. He'd known Arthur since he was a fawn, and viewing him in that way was hard to get used to. The lion needed to, of course, the fox as well: they'd robbed carriages with him, trains and banks even, yet still considered him a fawn. He'd been coming around to it since Hosea left, especially since The Incident, but thinking of him in rut… that was hard.

The thought had him twitching in his sheath, and he snarled at himself, rolling over to rid himself of any temptation to press against the bed, to seek any sort of pressure against his cock.

  
  


A clatter, a thump coming from the direction of Arthur's tent had Dutch on his paws before he had even fully registered the noise, gun in hand. His fur stood on end as he hurried out of his own tent, jogging across tent. Was he alright? Had he been attacked? 

He entered Arthur's tent on silent paws in case there was an attacker, bringing up his gun. The scent of  _ arousal _ and something far too close to this fighting stags had his mouth going dry, his cock peeking from his sheath, gun falling to dangle at his side.

Arthur, obviously, hadn't noticed him. His head was tilted back, low, pleasured grunts spilling from his throat as his hand slipped over his cock, pumping it at a painful looking pace. The tip was purple, and Dutch couldn't tear his eyes away from the white that dribbled from it: he could taste it in the air. The buck groaned, gasped something that Dutch couldn't make out, dug his hooves into the bed and thrust his hips into the air, arching himself beautifully—

a cold chill ran through Dutch, and he tore his eyes away. The source of the noises were obvious, a canteen spilling water into the dirt from where it laid on the grass, his journal laying open, pages down, and he knew any other time Arthur would never stand for his beloved journal to be treated such a way.

As quietly as he could, unable to stop himself from taking a final, appraising glance, he slunk out of the buck's tent, making a beeline for his own, revulsion raising bile in his throat as his cock bounced against his stomach with each stuttered step. He curled up on his bed, burying his head in his pillow, carelessly discarding his gun and vaguely relieved that he hadn't chambered a bullet as it clattered to the floor.

The lion inhaled deeply, frantically trying to forget those scents, his Son's (his  _ Son!  _ not by blood but still his Son!) desperate arousal, the salty sting of his pre-cum in the air. But his own scent, strong as it was, kept being washed away as the scents returned to mind, grappling for attention, refusing to be forgotten.

_ Arthur, head tilted back, the clapping of hand on skin strong in the air _

His hips twitched, and he gasped as the bed provided delicious friction against his cock. Unable to help himself, he thrust, long and slow, shuddering violently

_ Arthur, back arched, pink cock obvious against his gorgeous fur. His face was hidden by his hat, but his pleasure was obvious _

The lion pushed himself up onto his paws, reaching down and taking himself in hand, taking his pillow in his teeth as he began to pump slowly, moaning pitifully

_ Arthur was stretched out on his stomach beneath him, twisting his neck to stare at him as if he were a God _ —no, Arthur would never look at him like that— _ glaring up at him in challenge even as the lion ground against his ass _

He sped up the movements of his hand, thrusting furiously, his cot rocking beneath him, dully glad that it was on the ground as it made no noise, the pleasure of both friction and pressure quickly drawing the hot knot in his stomach to release

_ He pressed inside that tight, hot hole, moaning loudly. The buck's eyes rolled in pleasure _

Dutch squeezed as tight as he could, the pain-pleasure having him seeing stars

_ "DUTCH!"  _

"Ar-!" the lion clenched his jaw, his pillow tearing between sharp teeth, muffling himself as best he could. He released himself, clenching his furs and hearing them tear as he thrust once, twice, three times, before spilling on his cot. Dutch remained hovering for a long moment, shuddering in the afterglow of his pleasure, before collapsing onto the mess with a grunt, eyes glassy and tail tapping contentedly.

He was in deep shit, wasn't he?


	4. The Solution

Dutch should have taken the time to get more peaches.

  
  


The come-to-Jesus talk, as any man or beast within several miles could tell, had not gone well. 

The two were standing nose to nose and, despite Dutch's best attempts to keep his cool, his inability to look the younger in the eye without feeling horrifically guilty, he was snarling, low in his chest, his teeth bared. The buck was blowing harshly, eyes flashing, stamping his hoof.

Dutch didn't even know where it had gone wrong. An attempt to apologize had turned into raised voices, butting accusations, cruel jabs and snarled insults. Hurt rolled off of Arthur in waves, but Dutch couldn't find it in himself to care, his mind occupied with seeking retorts for everything Arthur said.

The lion was on edge, his vision tinted red, fur standing on end and tail lashing. His skin itched, and his teeth ached, and some part of him knew he needed to walk away before he did something he'd regret—already, he was regretting bringing a prey animal into their little family.

He snarled, low in his chest, biting back sharply at Arthur, hands twitching, flexing his claws. The stag grumbled, scraped his hoof along the ground, flashed his teeth and lowered his head to wave his stub-horns threateningly.

The beast snarled, and Dutch's vision went red. After all they'd done for him, he _ dared _ to threaten him?! The lion coiled and launched himself forward with a roar, fully intending on taking the buck to the ground.

Arthur bellowed and braced himself, catching Dutch and grappling, clinging to his hands. He reeked of fury and hurt, and Dutch gasped for breath, twisting from side to side as he tried to unbalance the younger buck. The lion was shocked by how strong Arthur had gotten in such a short period of time, the buck easily holding his own, sending him staggering back a couple steps. It only made him angrier: after everything, Arthur was _ fighting _him?! 

He snapped his teeth, shoving back. The buck staggered, bellowing wordlessly, swinging his antlers as he fought to regain his hooves. He lunged for Dutch, but the lion roared again, making him flinch at the loud sound, surging forward and slamming into him, taking him to the ground. 

It was a good thing he had been the one to teach Arthur to fight, or else he wouldn't have known to twist away to keep from being disemboweled as Arthur surged upwards, trying to slam those sharp hooves of his unto his stomach. They tumbled, Arthur bellowing and grunting as he lurched, kicked with his sharp hooves and punched and tried to strike with his pointed horns, Dutch snarling and trying to bite and tear and scratch, foiled only by how much he had to move to keep out of reach, to keep from being gored.

If he hadn't taught Arthur to fight so well, the stag would be dead, and Dutch would come back to himself, never able to forgive himself for what he'd done.

Their horses screamed and fled, breaking loose of their feathers. Birds shot from the trees, rabbits trembled in their burrows. Surely, when the lion finished with his hunt, he'd prowl for them next! 

The lion roared, the stag bugled. Their blood thrummed in their veins, hearts raced in their ears. Fear fueled Arthur, drove him to fight back, to get out from under the predator and see another day, but there was anger there, too. Anger at having been dismissed, over and over again, as nothing more than some _ child _, a faun that he hadn't been in years. At being treated with condescension, treated as though he hadn't come into his own, and he was determined to show him that he wasn't a fawn anymore, that he was a fully grown stag. Even as his skin itched, his blood boiled, and his body thrummed. 

And Dutch… Dutch was furious. He'd given Arthur everything he could, fed him and housed him and trained him, and here he was _ fighting him _ . Had spent the last few weeks challenging him, trying to take his role as leader of the gang. The lion wanted to bite, and rip, and tear, make him regret even _ thinking _ of challenging him, spread him out across the clearing to prevent Hosea from challenging him, too.

They twisted and thrashed. Dutch, trying to pin Arthur, and Arthur trying to keep him from doing so, trying to gore him in the process. They weren't men, weren't sentient, were only wild animals lashing out in anger. 

Arthur was strong, yes, and young and bulky, but the lion was just that little bit bigger, and the buck was still learning to control his strength. So it was the lion that pinned the buck, if only barely, clinging and snarling as the buck thrashed, bucking and arching in an attempt to free himself, holding on as tightly as he could as he waited for the stag to free himself… 

His claws broke flesh, and he smelled blood. The stag grunted in pain, and the lion froze, beginning to come to clarity, the scent of his boy's blood in the air breaking through to him. _ 'Shit!' _

He struggled to loosen his grip, claws stuck tight in the buck's hide, only making him struggle worse, "Arthur, calm… calm down." the lion was still struggling to regain control of himself, and having his prey thrashing beneath him was _ not helping. _

The buck began to weaken, still flailing until, finally, with a snarled “ARTHUR! THAT’S ENOUGH!” using that authoritative voice that always made people listen, that made lions natural-born leaders, he went still beneath Dutch.

Gasping for breath, voice still low and throaty and half feral, he grunted “...Dutch?”

The lion grimaced, struggling to get his claws free, Arthur was grunting beneath him, obviously hurting, and Dutch pressed his nose between his shoulder blades apologetically: this was all his fault, wasn’t he? He was the leader, the older of the pair, the predator. The one who was supposed to be in control. And it was he who had lost his temper, who had attacked the buck, taken him to the ground and set his claws into his skin.

Hell, he’d tried to kill him. 

Adrenaline flooded his veins, cold and harsh, bringing him to horrific clarity. He had tried to _ kill _ Arthur. And he couldn’t deny it. He could still smell the fear in the air, the blood, could feel his claws tugging at Arthur’s pelt.

“Sorry son, stay still.” he knelt, moving as carefully as he could, feeling his claws work free, slowly as it was. The buck was still squirming, pelt twitching with each painful tug but, finally, his claws came free. _ ‘Thank god.’ _

There was blood trickling from the wounds, not a lot, but enough to taint golden fur red, and so Dutch shifted his weight, kneeling over his boy to press his palm over the worst of the two, putting pressure to stem the bleeding. It wasn’t a bad wound, likely wouldn’t even leave a scar, but he felt horrible for it, and at the moment all he could think of was trying to stop the pain.

The buck’s ears flattened back, and he grunted, “Get offa me, Dutch.” bringing his palms up to try and push himself up.

Dutch growled, flashing his teeth—why did the boy have to be so _ difficult?! _ He had tried to be nice, only to have it thrown in his face. He’d gotten angry, and was trying to fix it, and Arthur was fighting him every step of the way. “Arthur, I am _ trying _ to help you.”

When Arthur spoke, this time, there was a panicked tone to his voice, “I said get off of me!” he’d managed to brace himself, muscles tensing beneath Dutch as he arched upwards,

“Dammit, Arthur!” the lion snarled, feeling the wound spill more blood on his hand, twisting to grasp the buck’s antlers and twisting him to the ground

Arthur gasped, and moaned.

Dutch’s eyebrows raised, pressing down on the buck again under the guise of _ keeping _ him down, fighting the urge to groan himself when he heard the buck do the same. “Arthur…?” he asked, struggling to keep the vague amusement, and strong curiosity, out of his voice.

The buck twisted, the lion having let go of his antlers, and buried his face in his arm. “Oh, god.” The stink of embarrassment rolled off of him in waves, threatening to choke Dutch, and he huffed: now _ there _ was the Arthur he knew. He stooped down, pressing his nose as close as he dared to the crook of his neck, taking a deep breath and shuddering, his fur standing on end and his tail lashing. Beneath the embarrassment, and the faint remnants of fear and rage, Arthur smelled of nothing but pure rut and arousal.

_ “Oh,” _ the lion managed, jaw gaping open as he tried to swallow more of the scent, able to taste it, his pupils blown wide and praying, desperately, to a god he didn’t even think he believed in that the buck couldn’t feel his arousal beginning to peek from his sheath.

“_ Please _ , Dutch,” Arthur whined, and if that wasn’t the most beautiful sound Dutch had ever heard, he didn’t know what was, “let me _ go _,” making a feeble attempt to rise before seeming to think better of it, curling in on himself beneath Dutch’s bulk.

Oh, god, this was bad. He could feel the scent clouding his mind, knew he should get up and send Arthur to take care of himself, to tend to those shallow wounds and leave him to suffer the rest of his rut in peace. But the way he had begged him… the scent of his arousal… the wonderful warmth of him beneath him… god, he couldn’t just get up and leave.

He took a deep breath, regretted it immediately. The stag’s scent, fear and rage and rut and arousal and that forest-y, gunsmoke and campfire smell that was uniquely _ him _, filled his nose. Dutch shuddered, wishing that he was one of the few who wore pants, as he moved to stand. “Come on, son, get up. We need to get you to your tent,” his voice as low and throaty as he’d ever heard it.

Arthur seemed to curl on himself even more, if that was possible, shaking his head where it was still buried in his arm, “I’m fine, I’ll… I’ll come in later.” and as he moved, Dutch got the briefest glimpse of something glistening and pink, and his mouth went dry, his own arousal twitching against his stomach, hurrying its way out of his sheath.

The lion ran his hand down the stag’s spine, rumbling low, feeling him shudder, and said something he knew he would regret later, “You know, son, you can always come to me. For _ anything _.”

Arthur went very still beneath him, and Dutch was almost sure he wasn’t breathing. But, finally, voice trembling, he said “Don’t need help.”

Dutch, though, was half out of his mind. The scent of arousal had only gotten strong, rut-scent choking him. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the darkened spot of dirt where he had begun to leak pre-cum, and it was only sheer willpower that kept him from pinning the stag to the ground and fucking him dry, nevermind whatever nonsense the stag said.

But Dutch wasn’t that sort of person, so he draped himself over Arthur, letting him feel his weight, throwing all reason to the wind and damning the consequences, fighting the urge to shudder when his arousal pressed against rough fur, and reached around. The stag sobbed, arching up and thrusting instinctively, as his rough hand wrapped around his dripping cock, thumbing the tip and coming away soaked in pre-cum. “Are you sure, son?” he rumbled (and this _ was _ his son! Not by blood but still his _ son_! But he smelled so good, and he _ did _ need his help), “it doesn’t seem like you’re handling this very well.”

Arthur choked, eyes widening, spreading his legs without thinking and beginning to thrust shallowly. All he had been able to think about, since the beginning of the season, since the first drop of heat had set his blood aflame, was about pressing into the hot cunt of a doe. And, as the season wore on, and he didn’t meet a single doe, hadn’t been able to lock antlers over one, he would have given anything to set himself into _ any _ cunt, so long as it was hot and wet and dripping for _ him _.

By now? So long as it was warm, he would fuck it.

And now he had a living, flesh-covered hand wrapped around his cock. It wasn’t as good as a cunt, as far as he was aware, but it was warm, and much more skilled than his own, knowing just how to twist and thumb the head to have him gasping, arching his back and rutting desperately, unable to make any sound other than desperate grunting. Trying, fruitlessly, to fuck himself deeper, to where there was, surely, something wet for him to fill, to satiate that agonizing _ need _ that had been driving him more and more insane since the season had started.

“Oh, my poor boy,” the lion rumbled, watching as the buck fell to pieces beneath him with only a few pumps of his hand, a few swipes of his thumb over his cock-head. The boy was clearly _ desperate _, in agonizing need, left to suffer for far too long if he had fallen apart so quickly. “Don’t worry, my boy, I’ll take such good care of you.” he licked a stripe up the stag’s spine, any hesitation he had had burnt away in his lust and need.

He could hate himself later, when his mind wasn’t clouded, when his hand wasn’t around the stag’s cock, his ears filled with his desperate grunting, the air filled with the scent of arousal. It would take a man far stronger than he to resist Arthur in this moment.

Dutch gasped, turned it into a throaty grumble, when the stag’s jolting movements brought his back into contact with his cock. Electricity raced up his spine, hand tightening on the buck’s cock enough to have him whine, movements stuttering. The lion licked the knobs of his back again in apology, maneuvering himself so he could enjoy the press of flesh against his arousal with each backwards movement of Arthur’s body.

Arthur seemed sufficiently distracted, more than pleased with having something to fuck into that wasn’t his own fist, that could set its own pace and leave him wondering when next he’d be able to find a moment of pleasure, and he slowed the movments of his hand just long enough to hear him whine in desperation, running his free hand down the boy’s back, along his spine and to his tail, flashing white as he moved beneath him.

He brought his hand to his mouth, rough tongue coming out to cover his fingers in saliva, dipping them inside one by one to coat them as best he could. The lion didn’t have his satchel on him, didn’t have any vaseline or gun oil, so he’d have to make do. Besides, he didn’t quite think Arthur would mind so long as he had something warm and wet to fuck into and, with how much he was spilling, he would stay plenty wet, and more than warm.

Satisfied that his fingers were wet enough, he pressed one to the stag’s asshole, speeding up the pumping of his other hand as he began to circle his rim, testing it and getting it wet before, making sure the grunting and gasping stag was distracted, beginning to press in. There was a stutter in Arthur’s movements, and he gasped, but once Dutch tightened his grip, twisting _ just so _, he seemed to forget all about the finger going into his asshole, jerking and bucking frantically until, bucking back, Dutch’s finger was taken into the knuckle.

Dutch winced, leaning forward to lick along his spine. “Good boy,” he began to fuck his finger in and out with Arthur’s movements, slow at first, before speeding up to match his frantic pace, eyes locked on where his finger vanished into him. Surely, if Arthur wasn’t bothered by one, he could take another? Besides, his cock was much larger than just one finger…

Repeating his trick, twisting his wrist and listening to the stag bugle, arching desperately, he began to press a second finger in, watching as it was sucked in alongside the first. The stag began to stutter his movements, and Dutch began to stroke more firmly, beginning to try all the tricks that he knew he, himself, liked. Running his thumb along the rim of his head, flicking into the slit; Arthur choked, and nearly went to the ground. Dutch took the opportunity to press his second finger the rest of the way in, struggling somewhat, Arthur was _ tight _ but he knew he’d have to loosen him up before he could take his cock.

And, _ oh, _ just the thought had him shuddering, his hand stuttering on Arthur’s cock, struggling to maintain a rhythm. Just… just one more finger. “Good boy, Arthur, such a good boy for me. Just one more,” but the desperate stag, so relieved at finally having a doe, even a fake one that his desperate mind could hardly see the difference between, paid him little mind.

His third finger was pressed beside the two, and he began to wriggle it in. The stag was starting to squirm, trying to decide between the uncomfortable stretching and the agonizing pleasure, as Dutch managed to get a single knuckle in. But Arthur grunted, gasping and clenching, and no amount of rumbling and pumping and back licking or stroking could get him to loosen up. So, finally, the lion withdrew his hand, staring at the winking, loosened asshole in desperate want, his arousal throbbing against his stomach.

He began to pump his hand, faster, remembering what Arthur had seemed to like the most, finally flicking his thumb over the slit. Arthur gasped, back arching as he gave a few aborted twitches of his hips, beginning to cum almost violently, “Ah-ah-ah-”ing as his cock splattered ropes of cum on the ground. When it was over, he slumped onto his side, cock still half hard and twitching in heated interest, the arousal in the air keeping the stag ready, his rut helping a great deal, face blissed out, eyes hazy and ears hanging loose.

“God, _ Arthur _,” Dutch panted, ignoring his own need as he looked at his boy. God, he looked so wonderful like that. Pleasured and happy, if only for the moment and, unable to help himself he crawled up and pressed their muzzles together.

Their faces weren’t made for kissing, and it was considered quite uncivilized, but those who didn’t care for propriety tended to like it. It wasn’t reserved for mates, could be quite vicious and, as Arthur began to participate, it showed. Their muzzles pressed together, tongues running along teeth, Dutch’s running along Arthur’s flat teeth, the stag pricking his tongue more than once on Dutch’s impossibly sharp fangs. They grunted and growled, pressing into each other, fighting for dominance, even though Arthur had just been sobbing and moaning beneath Dutch, two fingers up his ass.

_ “God _ , Arthur.” the lion panted against his mouth, eyes opening to stare at those blue eyes, framed by the dark tear-stain markings of his fur. Darkened with want and pleasure, he thought he’d never seen him so handsome, so appealing, and he wanted to see just how wrecked he could make him. If he could make tears dribble down his face, make _ true _ tear stains, not those false ones that had helped them in so many cons when he was still little and cute enough that people would fall for his, quite literal, sob stories.

He grabbed the stag’s stubby antlers, remembering that he had seemed to like it before, relishing in the buck’s startled “Dutch!”, more groan than word, and stood, pulling him up with him until his boy was on his knees. Arthur glared up at him, although the effect was rather ruined by the clear want in his glazed eyes, pupils blown so wide that there was only the slightest ring of sea-glass blue. His jaw gaped open, panting for breath in low grunts, and even still his eyes twitched, following Dutch’s throbbing cock as it bobbed in front of him.

“My good boy,” Dutch purred, taking note of how Arthur shuddered, spent cock giving a valiant twitch. He tugged on the deer’s antlers, the buck squinting as he was pulled forward, the purpling head of Dutch’s cock pressed against his muzzle. His eyes flashed, ears flattening as he stared up at Dutch: _ he _ wanted to top! _ He _ was the one in rut, _ he _ was the stag, _ he _ was the dominant of the pair!

Nevermind that Dutch was older, and more in control of his strength, and only moments before had had his fingers up his ass. Granted, Arthur wasn’t quite thinking straight, mind clouded with hormones and rut and pure _ need _.

When Dutch pressed his hips forward, nudging his cock more insistently against him, Arthur folded, dropping his jaw just enough to take in the tip. The lion’s ears flattened back as that warm, wet mouth enveloped him, tongue darting out to flick across his slit, ears twitching at the taste. The buck had never imagined himself taking another man’s cock into his mouth before, had never tasted his own cum, and found he didn’t mind it, much. It was musky and salty, but not altogether unpleasant, so he slowly took more in, the lion grumbling as he struggled not to thrust. Not to force himself deeper into that heat, to let Arthur take him at his own pace. He kept his grip on his antlers, more to ground himself than anything, but even still his hands clenching on them had Arthur groaning, fumbling and taking more of him in.

“Arthur…” the lion hissed through clenched teeth, hips beginning to give little thrusts, working his way more into the buck’s mouth. Arthur grunted, trying to draw back, but the grip on his antlers had him stuck in place, forced to take his cock as he began to thrust into his throat. He squirmed, eyes widening, as the lion began to pick up his pace, barely managing “just breathe,” before digging his claws into the ground, fucking forcefully into his throat.

Arthur’s eyes widened, tears beginning to build in his eyes as he gagged, hands flying up to grab onto Dutch’s hips to brace himself. He swallowed rapidly, saliva pooling in his mouth, beginning to drool from around the pistoning cock as tears began to drip down his face. Dutch squinted, panting loudly as he looked down at the buck, managing “through your… your nose, son,” struggling to slow and let Arthur get used to having a cock down his throat.

The buck closed his eyes, swallowing (the lion moaned), finally managing to breathe around his cock, finding it much easier, no longer struggling. His gag reflex was still triggering, if not as badly, leaving him to drool and cry, darkening his tear-stripe markings. “Good boy…” Dutch managed, feeling the heat begin to pool in his stomach, balls drawing tight against his body, “my good boy,” his hips stuttered, clenching so tightly to his antlers that his knuckles popped, and the stag began to buck his hips, cock half mast and beginning to drip between his knees, “_ only _ my good boy,” he managed around a deafening snarl, forcing his cock down his throat with a thrust that made Arthur grunt, his nose slamming into Dutch’s stomach, beginning to cum.

The stag’s eyes widened, trying to draw back, but the lion bared his teeth, clinging to his antlers, holding him so tightly to his stomach that it hurt his sensitive nose, gagging as salty cum poured down his throat. Finally, Dutch released him, panting as he stepped back, spent cock slipping from his throat, the stag coughing and spluttering, cum and spit dripping from his mouth. Dutch stared, enjoying the sight in the most primal way, knowing he’d never be able to forget it, that any mate after this would be held to this standard.

Arthur continued to cough, eyes watering even as he glared at Dutch, managing “w-warning?” as he reached up to wipe his muzzle, only succeeding in messing the fur of his arm as well. The lion rumbled happily, flicking out his claws before scratching gently around the base of his antlers, “My good, good boy.” The stag grunted, shook his head, but leaned into the touch either way, eyes half closing in bliss. His cock was throbbing painfully against his stomach, beginning to drip onto and darken his handsome golden fur, hips twitching helplessly.

Dutch knelt, rough tongue darting out to clean the fur on Arthur’s muzzle. The stag sighed, flicking his ears back, but allowed it, enjoying the rough touch. He’d always relished being groomed by others, any social animal did, and when Dutch pressed insistently against his muzzle he opened up without complaint, tilting his head and slipping his tongue into the lion’s mouth, tracing sharp teeth as the lion did the same. Dutch rumbled happily, tasting himself in Athur’s mouth, primally enjoying the sense of claim, of _ ownership _ and _ possession _ over the stag.

He pushed him, guiding the stag backwards until he was sprawled on his back, still grunting in that awkward kiss. The lion straddled him, grabbing their cocks in one hand (the stag choked, moaning, eyes rolling back), beginning to pump them, working to get himself erect again, to give the poor stag some sort of friction on his painfully throbbing cock. He pulled free of the kiss, lowering his head to bury his nose in his throat when Arthur threw his head back with a moan as Dutch flicked his thumb over his slit, nibbling at the soft flesh there. He huffed, drawing short, deep breaths, groaning as his mind was clouded with hormones, with the scents of rut and arousal and pleasure, his cock beginning to twitch with interest, swelling rapidly.

His mind whirled, panting and rutting, Arthur’s hands flying up to grip his shoulders desperately, grunting loudly in pleasure, hips bucking forcefully.

Abruptly, the lion pulled away, growling and gripping the stag so hard his claws broke skin, flipping him onto his stomach. The stag was still for a moment, yelping “Dutch?” as the lion pulled his claws free of his arms, though he moved easily enough when he began to maneuver him, tugging him onto his hands and knees. Dutch purred “Good boy,” running his hand down his spine with just enough pressure to make him arch it, eyes flashing in arousal, “that’s my good boy.”

His eyes went to his twitching asshole, and without warning he leaned down to flick his tongue over it, the stag jolting in surprise. Dutch’s patience, if it could be called that, was rapidly waning, though, so he spat on his palm, slicking up his cock, hoping that the mix of spit and cum would be lubricant enough, pressing the head of his cock against his rim. He leant down, spat where they were connected, felt the stag shivered.

Took a good grip on the stag’s hips, kept him in place as the stag braced himself, and began to push.

The stag groaned, tail flaring in some sort of alarm, as his head breached him, the lion baring his teeth at the tight squeeze. He kneaded Arthur’s hips, wanting to thrust and bury himself in that tight heat and keep thrusting until he came, struggling to rein himself in, barely managing, “You alright, son?”

Arthur’s throat clicked in a swallow, ears twitching, grinding his teeth, “Feels… feels weird, Dutch.”

The lion’s hips gave an aborted thrust burying another inch of him inside. The stag gasped, digging his fingers into the ground. “Good weird? Or bad weird?”

Arthur thought for a moment, tightening around his cock (Dutch groaned) decided, “Dunno, doesn’t... doesn’t hurt.”

“Alright, son, hold on. Hurts less if I push all the way in.” and he did. He bucked his hips, burying himself to the hilt. The stag choked, eyes widening, jaw gaping and tail flashing. Dutch shuddered, clung so tight to his hips that his claws pricked at his flesh, throbbing inside his tight heat, “O...okay, son?”

Arthur dropped his head to the ground, panting. He still wanted to _ fill _ , to be the one _ inside _ a slick, warm, wet heat, but he was finding himself more and more content to be filled. “Fine,” he managed, although he wasn’t finding much pleasure in it. More of a scratch of an itch than any sort of pleasure.

Dutch stopped holding back, then. The lion gripped him tight, drew his hips back and thrust forward so harshly that a grunt was forced out of Arthur’s throat, pulled back and thrust forward again, mind taken over by desperate need. The stag squirmed, eyes wide at the pain as he stretched around him, each sharp thrust forcing a grunt out of him. His fingers carved canyons in the dirt, and he choked out “D-dutch!”

The lion growled, ears flattening and baring his teeth, barely able to speak around the sound, “Hold… hold on…” beginning to angle each thrust, licking his lips, seeking. Where was…

“DUTCH!”

There it was.

“What… what is?” the stag croaked as Dutch stilled for a moment, grinning in amused pride, before thrusting forcefully again into him. Arthur sobbed in pleasure, his cock spraying pre-cum on the ground, stomach skidding in the dirt. “Shit, Dutch! Shit!”

Now that his boy was gone to pleasure, no longer in pain, the lion gave into his own pleasure. He grabbed so tightly to Arthur’s hips his claws broke flesh, the stag’s ears flicking back as the sharp pain pierced his pleasure for a brief moment, but another sharp jab against his prostate had him sobbing, tears streaking down his face, squirming on the lion’s cock. “Dutch!” he sobbed, and his name had never sounded so good before, a bird’s warbling song on his ears.

Dutch hunched, leaning over Arthur until his chest was pressed against the stag’s back, and set his teeth into the thick scruff of his neck. The stag choked a moan, cock throbbing, clawing at the dirt, eyes rolling in sheer pleasure. The lion began to thrust, frantically, snarling loudly and jolting Arthur with each thrust, teeth breaking flesh and tasting blood. No other fuck would stand up to this one, he realized, although what was left of _ Dutch _ beneath the haze of hormones and arousal and need yelled that he could never have this fuck again, that he was breaking any trust he had with Arthur, that this was still the fawn he’d raised, and that he was making a huge mistake.

But with the tight, warm heat around his cock, the wonderful, pleasured moans in his ears, broken by those staccato grunts, he found he couldn’t quite care. He could deal with that later. Arthur was enjoying it, and he could only hope that the stag would want him to help him through his future ruts.

And if he didn’t, well, he would have the memory of this.

Dutch dug his claws into the ground, braced himself as the coil in his stomach began to tighten. But he _ needed _ to make Arthur come first, he always took care of his boy, and he wouldn’t feel right if he came before him. Besides, if he got Arthur to cum, for a second time, actually, then maybe Arthur would be more amenable to sharing his future ruts with him?

God, he could only hope so.

He slowed his thrusts, the stag gasping “Dutch!” pleadingly, turning to look at him over his shoulder, eyes glassy with tears, and it took all Dutch had not to cum right then. Arching his hips, he began to hammer at the stag’s prostate, chest burning with pride as he watched his eyes roll, go half-lidded, head thumping to the ground and then

the buck choked, cock twitching, sobbing and yelling and moaning, babbling “DutchdutchdutchohgodDUTCH!” as he began to spill rope after rope of cum on the ground. Dutch reached up, grabbing the stag’s antler and pulling him to face him, eyes darting up to drink in the sight of his boy’s hazy pleasure, the way his jaw hung open, the way his eyes were half-lidded, glassed over, pupils blown wide and, trailing his claw along his antler, enjoyed the way the stag whimpered pitifully, giving a few, last, aborted bucks of his hips, clenching tight on Dutch’s cock, his own twitching weakly and dripping a few last drops on the ground. When Dutch let go of the antler, the stag buckled, his arms giving out as he slumped to the ground, tears dripping down his face, only Dutch’s tight grip on his hips keeping him from collapsing all the way.

The lion clenched his jaw, sank his teeth in deeper, clutched his hips tighter, abandoned all of his attempts to give Arthur pleasure after he hit his prostate and the stag whimpered a weak “Dutch, ouch,” focused only on finding his own. Braced his paws against the ground and began to thrust rapidly, harshly, jolting the stag along the ground, his staccato grunts dull in his ears, only barely able to hear his gasped “Dutch, Dutch, Dutch,”

Dutch snarled, that heated coil in his stomach growing tighter and tighter, his balls drawing up against him and, with a final few harsh thrusts, the coil released. He shuddered, stilling on top of Arthur as he came, filling him with with ropes of cum. The stag grumbled in distaste at the odd, warm feeling, twitching his ears, the lion loosening his grip on his nape as he gave a last few, lazy, thrusts of his hips, shivering atop of Arthur as he allowed himself to bask in his afterglow.

Finally, though, he maneuvered them both to the ground, tugging Arthur onto his side, pulling his spent cock out of his ass, cum spilling out over the stag’s thighs, darkening his fur, and if the stag wasn’t so drowsy he would have complained, would have insisted Dutch go and get something to clean him up with, dried cum was a _ pain _ to get out of his fur. As it was, he simply blinked blearily, limp on the ground, enjoying the way the lion was kneading at his hips, even though it did sting.

Dutch released his grip on the nape of his neck, rumbling a loud yawn, beginning to lick the thick fur, cleaning the blood he had spilled. The stag was already dead asleep, though, worn out from his first time fucking inside of a rut: first time fucking, period, inside _ or _ outside of season, actually, and Dutch was beginning to doze off, too. No one that wasn’t in rut or in heat could keep up with a young buck, or any animal, really, in season, much less one older than them.

It was worth it, though, and he hoped he would be given the chance to get used to it, to develop the stamina he would need to last all the way through. As it were, though, he needed to sleep, in case Arthur would let him help him again when he woke. _ God _, he hoped so. Even if he’d be sore and aching for the rest of the week.

  


The pair began to drift awake to the sound of approaching footsteps, ears twitching. But the scent was familiar, though, so they remained in that odd in-between state, more asleep than awake, not leaping awake as they usually would, at least until

"What the _ fuck _ Dutch Van Der Linde?!"


End file.
